


Before Afterwards

by yesterdaisy_______57



Category: Real Person Fiction, The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Gen, Liverpool, Sefton Park
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 10:49:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16474130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yesterdaisy_______57/pseuds/yesterdaisy_______57
Summary: 31 October 1957. A glimpse into the stirrings that will eventually produce one of the most incredible groups in history.Today marks the one-year anniversary of Paul's mother's death.





	1. Before Afterwards I

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everybody! This is my first EVER published fanfic-- I write a lot, but I edit even more and yet have never gotten around to finishing anything. I’ve got several that are nearly done but I am also very busy so I don’t really know if it’ll be six hours or six months before they are up.  
> Anyway… 
> 
> In honour of the SIXTY-SECOND anniversary of Mary’s death (RIP) I thought I’d give you a little prequel to a fic I’m conceiving called Afterwards, which would deal with the loss more generally and may just be an outlet to a lot of character work and historical research I’ve been doing. There are four parts to the prequel, but I thought I’d post as two chapters because they’re pretty short. Hope you like it!

It was nearly November, but rays of sunlight were already shooting sidelong into the front bedrooms at 20 Forthlin Road. Paul could feel their warmth landing on his face and stretching over his neck and ear. He tried to shield the sun from his eyes with an arm, but his eyelids were glowing red, and so he rolled over and sat up, blinking and running a hand slowly through his hair, like his mother used to do. He’d always liked the feeling of her fingers caressing him, the comfort of being careless, dependent for a moment if only that long.

Those days were done now. Paul needed to be strong: he was the eldest son, and with a little brother and a widower father he could not afford to wish away the situation at hand. There could be no going back.  _ Especially today _ , he thought suddenly, with a sinking stomach and sudden urge to begin moving, to do anything. He had realised that today, being the day after the 30th, must now be the thirty-first of October, 1957. That meant that as of today, it had been a year since Mary passed away.

Paul threw the blanket off his feet and stood up quickly. His breathing was fast, and he controlled it carefully as he looked around a bit wildly for something warm. A hot burning behind his eyes made him flinch; abandoning the search haphazardly and blinking fast, he snatched his guitar from its spot by the wall and checked the tuning quickly, holding the body up to his ear. When he was done he simply stood in the doorway, closing his eyes and focusing on the feeling of the guitar as he held it closely: the back of the neck smooth in his right palm, the taut metal strings ready under his fingers and the wooden body as it fit under his left arm. Then he opened his eyes marginally steadier, shifted it to one hand and hurried down the stairs.

Paul caught a glimpse of Jim McCartney seated in his chair, good ear towards the middle of the room as usual. He passed the front parlour, however, and made his way into the kitchen, where Mike was dejectedly pouring a cup of tea. Of course he had remembered too. He looked up quickly as Paul came in, but he seemed to read the expression on his face --  _ I don’t want to talk about it  _ \-- and simply continued into the front parlour. Paul followed suit; Jim acknowledged him when he came in.

Paul raised his eyebrows, keeping his father’s attention carefully, and gestured at the small glass of red wine in the shadows by Jim’s feet. ‘But Dad--’ he remarked hopefully, setting down his own tea -- ‘isn’t it a bit early for that? Wouldn’t you enjoy… something a bit lighter?'

There was a suggestive pause and Jim realised what Paul was on about and chuckled at his feet.

'-- ‘Pink Champagne’?'

'Go ahead, son,' answered Jim, softening a little. Paul breathed with relief and smiled proudly at Jim starting ahead with the song without looking at the fretboard. To his delight his fingers were in the right places and the notes came easily. 'How much have you got now, lad?'

'Enough,' Paul shrugged. He let himself disappear into the song, showing off. He breathed deeply and focused again on the feeling of the guitar in his arms. The lump that had formed in his throat when he’d noticed his father’s wine softened; he looked around the room as the song flowed through it. The right hand beat and held strings to wood; the opposite arm felt free as a bird, riding on the wind of his energy and rhythm as the painstakingly practiced notes skipped along. Though the end of the song passed several times, Paul gave no notice and simply joined it up to the first part again, enjoying the harmony.

After several runs he noted the shift in Jim’s eyes that meant he was verging on ridiculous repetition. Skipping to the end, Paul tied the last notes up neatly, satisfied with his playing. Jim liked this, he knew, better than Elvis or certainly the wild Little Richard. It was from his sort of musical era, Twenties.

'Well done, son,' Jim chuckled after he’d finished. 'Good job. Have you gotten ready for school? Would you like something to eat?'

Paul declined quickly. ‘I’ll just have tea, thanks.’ And he picked his cup up.

~~~~~~~~~~~

George Harrison's school cap perched precariously on his enormous dark quiff. He'd arrived humming to school but classes were uniquely boring and he'd come out of the last one sulky and dissatisfied. The guitar he'd started yesterday was nowhere to be found, so he'd started on a new one, but the f holes kept coming out all messy.

In the toilets, standing over one of the sinks along the long, grubby mirror was his friend Paul McCartney, 'nine months' older but put in the Removes for failing Latin intentionally once he found out it might lead him to becoming a teacher or such. Not for the first time he was rubbing furiously at the side of his hand, which was stained black with ink all down to his wrist. His hair was beginning to stray from its quiff, falling in front of those hazel eyes (exceptionally pretty for a boy, and expressive). Birds in town, giggling madly, liked to call them things like ANGELIC and then scamper off, making the backs of Paul's ears flush. He would only encourage them, of course, and had become quite the accomplished winker. HE wanted to look like ELVIS, of course. But then, who didn't? George came up beside him and smirked at the inky water in Paul's sink. He inspected his own hair carefully.

'Watch out, Paul,' he said, 'or it'll never go away. One of those days you'll be stuck with black and greasy hands forever. Disgusting, lad.'

'Hello to you too,' muttered Paul, not looking at him.

'Of course, perhaps the birds might stop bothering you then, eh?'

Paul turned away from the sink, wiping his hand fiercely on the inside of his coat. 'Aw, shut up,' he said shortly and left the toilet without another word. George peered into the mirror again and nudged a hair into perfection, then swung open the door again and caught up with Paul halfway down the hallway, grabbing his arm. Paul turned around, expression closed off. Those normally expressive eyes were unreadable.

'Hang on, don't be short,' George appealed. 'I wanted to tell you that I got that new release-- 'Rock and Roll Music'.'

Far from the expected reaction of interest and curious questions, Paul looked at him a second, and with a sudden, impatient, angry expression he pulled away, wrenching his arm from George's grasp. 'Sorry, Georgie, bugger off,' he insisted hotly.

'Chuck Berry, Paul,' George stressed.

'Yep.'

'American rock and roll song!'

'Just go, will you please?'

Something sharp in Paul's tone shook George, and he obeyed warily, Paul's words echoing repeatedly in his brain. Something was wrong. How had he not noticed anything? 

Paul’s voice had been shaking, he reflected now. Something was up. Yes, he’d just seemed at first glance like an impatient prick. Paul could be like that. But this was different somehow. He seemed simultaneously terrified and shocked if you looked very closely, which you had to because he was hiding it as well as he could. For one thing, Paul was always such an unbending optimist that it was easy for him to do as was his nature and put on a cheerful face when he was upset without anyone raising an eyebrow, but somehow today he couldn’t manage it. He’d resorted to making his stubbornly expressive eyes as blank as possible rather than cover it -- whatever it was -- up.

And he’d just been acting so different. Where he was normally an insufferable people-pleaser Paul had seemed desperate to push George away, no matter how he came off. His tone had been clipped and heated, his body tense, closed off. It had hardly been a minute before he snapped, his temper out of control. But the strangest thing was he’d totally lost interest in a new single. Chuck Berry. How could Paul not show any excitement over American rock n’ roll??

Curious and uneasy, George set off in the opposite direction, resolving not to bother Paul again that day. Perhaps it just wasn’t his business to find out.

 


	2. Before Afterwards II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul comes across John Lennon.

John Lennon, guitar slung over his shoulder, paused in his stroll along a road in Sefton Park --- as a familiar-looking somebody on a bicycle drew nearer. It was a boy, wearing Inny clothes, with extremely dark hair in a dishevelled Ted's quiff. Blurred, but something in the way he moved suggested... Paul? John squinted to try and see better. He'd been hoping for quite some time that the younger lad would show him a real guitar chord or two, but he hadn't been seen in the last two weeks.

When the other lad cleared his throat John was convinced it was Paul. 'Oi! McCartney!' he shouted hopefully.

Paul looked up, a bit surprised, and upon seeing John he swung a leg over the bike, coasting to a stop at John's side. His back was laden only with a school bag.

'No guitar, then?' John commented.

Paul shrugged dully. 'They don't let you bring them to Inny,' he replied.

John nodded. 'Right. Well, would you mind showing me a few of those  _ proper  _ chords of yours?' He scoffed the word out as if he couldn't care less, but he was burning to know them. Real GUITAR.

'Sure,' said Paul, hastily dropping his bike and holding out an arm for John's instrument. John supplied it eagerly.

Paul's fingers plucked a string and he held the guitar up near his ear, right hand extended far out to the tuning pegs, and slowly but surely the tones flew up to settle at correct pitches.

'You know,' remarked Paul, eyes on the instrument as he finished up, 'I don't have to fuss with this playing-upside-down shit anymore.' John looked up, startled by his uncharacteristically cool tone. 'I’ve got one of my own.'

'Didn't know you were so gear at playing that Zenith, then,' he answered bitterly after a moment. 'What happened to the one you didn't exactly rock ‘Guitar Boogie’ on?'

Paul didn't say a word. He simply raised his eyebrows, distracted for a moment by perfection as his eyes lit up, and looked at John, strumming a full-sounding chord. John stared him down searchingly for a couple of seconds and then let that go and examined Paul's fingers excitingly. Their shape was a bit awkward, a steep diagonal with the index finger jutting up as if pointing to himself. Upside down. He tried flipping it in his head.

'What's that, then?' he asked after considering it.

'C,' Paul responded quickly. 'Your go, try it on! Here -- I'll show you if you need it.'

John took the guitar from him and mimicked his pose. 'That good?'

Paul cocked his head and pushed a finger onto another fret. 'Here, good.'

John strummed and found to his delight that it was the same as Paul had played. It was actually quite comfortable, probably since he wasn't doing it upside down. 'Give us another,' he ordered.

Paul showed him G, D, and A, and finally B, which was just A up two frets. It was hard at first to press both across and straight down. John bit his lip, staring at his fingers. 'This all right?' he managed finally.

Paul looked at it. 'Yeah, great.'

The words were hardly out of his mouth when John followed daringly with: 'Are you all right?'

Paul swallowed. 'Yeah... great,' he repeated quietly.

John looked intently at Paul, waiting for him to admit how blatant and stupid the lie had sounded. But Paul just pulled away from him frustratedly, escaping John's stare. His mood had suddenly turned sour.

'Sod it,' he muttered, shoving the guitar all the way into John's arms and turning to leave.

But John was too quick for him; he seized Paul's collar in one hand and jerked him back against a tree, hissing suddenly, 'Don't you FUCKIN' run away from me, Paul McCartney.'

Paul's eyes widened, and then he raised an eyebrow cockily and simply glanced away, breathing hard from having the air knocked out of him, as if he had countless better things to do. John shook him roughly. 'Shite, look at me, Paul.'

Paul coolly met his gaze and John closed in on him, so close that Paul's face was in perfect focus even without his glasses. The gold in those hazel eyes was glinting through the green and brown in the sunlight. In the rush of the moment John didn't care that their legs and hips were pressing against each other and that to any passerby they probably looked like two passionate and very busy queers. He bit his lip and glanced at the ground, still lightly gripping Paul's shoulder. Then he looked up and gazed seriously into Paul's eyes again.

'You aren't all right,' he started fiercely, 'and you're a fucking sorry liar, you know that?' He paused and his tone became tender, concern finally showing through in his voice.

'Paul, why aren't you all right? What's wrong?' John was reluctant to show the affection so openly, but he knew that in his right mind Paul loved it, and besides, opening up would encourage Paul to do the same. He was right: the right reaction was finally beginning to show on Paul, clearly affected by the softness in John's voice. For a fleeting moment John was in and there was pain and fear and a sort of desperate helplessness in Paul's eyes, and then the other boy bit his lip and looked away. John thought he could feel Paul physically shaking under his hand, as if with laughter or tears, when suddenly he was pushed away with an unexpected and certainly unreckoned-for force.

'Me mum’s died, all right?!' Paul shouted abruptly, his voice hoarse as he stormed back to his bicycle and fumbled with picking it up, shaking.

John froze. SHIT.

He only registered that Paul was about to leave once he had started to mount his bike, and John hurriedly caught up. 'And today is…?'

'It's been a year now,' Paul finished shortly, giving him a halfway normal wave as he left, as if nothing was wrong. John stood gaping after him, his heart in some kind of sympathetic, panicky free-fall as Paul's figure disappeared quickly round the bend. It felt like a long time since he had flagged him down.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Paul pedalled furiously down the warm road, fighting the burning lump in his throat. His heart was beating fast to power his body farther  _ away _ from John Lennon,  _ away _ from someone who could really shake him. It had been a long day but he was doing well, keeping to himself; and then John had appeared on the side of the path just in time to catch him, daring and sharp enough to really confront him. There had been a note in his voice that seemed candidly caring when he’d asked what was wrong, and it had been all he could do when he looked into those searching eyes not to break down and sob into John’s shoulder. Why didn’t he  _ know _ \-- this incredible, hard artist -- that whatever turmoil was turning Paul’s world upside down, it did not matter to the rest of the world? How was it that he was able to so comfortably wear his heart on his sleeve?

Paul gritted his teeth, trying to ignore the pronounced blur that his vision had begun to acquire.  _ Typical, lovely to butt in when I’d been managing  _ fine _ , thanks _ , he wanted to protest to John.  _ ‘You aren’t all right’.... Well, I don’t  _ need _ that shit right now! _

But he had to stifle an odd noise threatening to come out with the burning behind his eyes. It was getting harder to see the road as they filled up. He missed the comfort of having a mother to do the fire and fold the laundry again, with her caring, practiced hands; to run her hands through his hair and try to make him talk nicely; to strive to make good lives for all of them; to provide a steady and dependable income. Guilt washed over Paul again as he remembered the hours after being told of her death, of beating himself up over the first question he’d asked, so inappropriate:  _ What will we do without her money? _ It would have shocked Mary if she’d been alive, would have made her turn in her grave if she’d been that long dead. Instead it only tortured Paul.

He could remember the moment that he’d guessed it was worse than they were letting on, when he’d spotted the blood on the sheets stowed hastily in a corner. She had been ghostly white and thin as a rod, weakened and good to the end. She had died praying, it had turned out. Paul let out a ragged sob and continued on, breathing quickly as a few tears tracked slowly down his face. He could still hear Mike bursting into tears next to him, the only sound his numb brain had registered at that moment. Seeing Jim cry had made it worse: he hadn’t imagined he would ever see that.

Paul understood now how difficult it really was to stay under control, even when it was very important. And he understood that he needed to move on, be strong for Mike and not inconvenience others with bouts of emotion. But that did not make it any easier. The irony made him choke out a laugh, biting his lip and tasting the salt of his own tears: all he needed to manage the situation was another day with Mary, but her absence was the cause for all of it in the first place. He imagined her running her hand through his hair again -- and, looking at the road ahead and wondering vaguely if this blurry wet mess was the world for John  _ all  _ the time, he directed his handles towards a tree and let himself just sort of wobble to the side of the road before falling deliberately in a crash.

After a moment he raised his head painfully from the ground and disengaged himself from the bicycle and school bag, then got over to the sheltering shade of the tree and sobbed, closing his eyes and curling up against himself. He didn’t want to even imagine John’s reaction to seeing him like this. But none of that mattered now. There was just an empty space where Paul’s mother was not.

Several minutes passed before Paul took a shaky deep breath, feeling more clear-headed. Mulling it over, he reaffirmed that there were always going to be other things that mattered. For one, guitar; secondly, he knew that Mary would be telling him to focus on passing his O-Levels and getting out of the Removes; then there were the looming call-ups. In fact, it was this event that had not mattered to any of those things or the people involved in them. It did not help anything to sit and feel sorry for himself -- but it was so tempting to stay under his tree just another minute.

Paul rolled over onto his back, having finished crying, and gazed up at the sky. It was so nice to be resting here, in the arms of Liverpool, just for this moment, with the grass cradling him from below and the breeze flowing softly across his face. The leaves on the trees, turning vivid oranges and reds, had never looked so pretty against the blue suburban sky or so wise. It was bliss to be in the care of this moment, right here.

And then Paul got up, and he brushed off his shirt, and he picked up his bicycle. The wind blew through his hair and he ran a hand through it, smiling faintly. He put his bag back on his shoulder. Then he mounted the bike and began to pedal off away through Sefton Park. He was facing the world now, stronger. Ready for afterwards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there you have it. I try to make everything as historically correct as possible so if you see any mistakes let me know. If you have any comments at all (or suggestions for later fics), actually, I’d love to hear them!


End file.
